


show and tell

by Nacht



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nacht/pseuds/Nacht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Tirion, Maglor asks for a story. He gets a demonstration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show and tell

**Author's Note:**

> Or, Fingon accidentally gets it on with the wrong son of Fëanor: the fanfiction.
> 
> There's some additional content stuff in the next paragraph that you're free to skip if you'd rather get to the porn.
> 
> Fingon and Maglor's ages are somewhat ambiguous, but they're both still young enough that stealing alcohol and drinking in parks is amusing to them, so take that as you will, and Maedhros and Fingon's relationship is stuck somewhere in that awkward place between fooling around with each other and properly dating each other. Also, Maedhros is Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Fic, but he sure does invade Fingon's thoughts a lot.

“I don’t think you’re telling the truth,” Maglor said, in a tone that suggested arguing with him was an impossible task.

Fingon bristled. “I wouldn’t lie.”

His wine sloshed in his cup, and he drank it rather than risk spilling it onto the grass, or worse, his clothes.

He had to make sure his prepared excuse seemed believable when he made it home, after all.

Maglor leaned against him.

It was a quiet hour, silver light pouring over the tops of the mountains, and the two of them were hidden behind the long branches of an old willow tree, tucked against the trunk. It was a nice spot, one of Fingon’s, though the wine had been brought by Maglor’s theft.

“You must admit you’re leaving yourself open to suspicion,” Maglor said. “Since you refuse to provide specifics.”

He enunciated each of his words with great care, Fingon noticed, tapping out a rhythm for them to follow against his knee even as he topped off his own cup. He offered the bottle to Fingon, and Fingon took it.

Both of them drank with the relish of the forbidden.

“I’m not going to kiss and tell,” Fingon said after a long moment. Not in this case, at least.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Maglor argued.

“Is so.”

Maglor peered at him. “Is not.”

Fingon lifted his cup again, and drank it down to the bottom in order to hide the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. Maglor was mistaken. He did have something to tell, a lot of something, in fact, and though it might appear suspicious not to speak of it further, Fingon was quite sure Maglor wouldn’t want to hear the details, since those details involved Maglor’s own brother.

He blushed harder.

Maglor’s peer morphed into a glare. “You should at least describe what happened. Shaking your head and blushing as you are does nothing to prove your honesty.” He paused, and then he shifted in sudden excitement, and Fingon realized that their faces were altogether too close to one another. “Unless, of course, you were awful at it. Is that it? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Fingon’s mouth fell open, and he sat up straighter in agitation. “I was not awful at it!”

He yelped a moment later when Maglor’s shoulder slipped against his own, and sent him cascading into Fingon’s lap, the smooth fabric of their tunics sliding together. He ended up slumped over with his hand braced on Fingon’s hip, and Fingon’s braids trailing over his back.

Mortification spiked down Fingon’s spine.

It was an intimate position, and though Maglor did nothing more than laugh at their combined clumsiness, Fingon himself felt somewhat undone. The topic of their current conversation combined with the heat radiating from Maglor’s form where it pressed against his own seemed to spiral out into strange fantasies in all of the dark corners of his mind.

He closed his eyes to chase them back, but it did not help in the least.

His heart thundered in his chest.

Maglor’s laughter trailed off into incoherent snickers. He tried to sit up and failed, scrabbling at the slick silk of Fingon’s tunic before slipping back down. He huffed a warm breath across Fingon’s neck and set his mostly empty cup to the side instead, giving up and pillowing his head on Fingon’s chest, where his heart was beating the hardest.

He still had his hand curled on Fingon’s hip.

Fingon swallowed. His entire mouth was drier than dust.

He tried to think of other things, boring things, and when that failed, he found himself thinking of Maedhros, which he knew was a mistake, but he could not stop himself once he began.

It hadn’t been much different than this, actually, though he’d been the one sitting in Maedhros’ lap.

He swallowed again.

“If you deny,” Maglor’s voice lilted like he was trying not to stutter, “being awful at it, then you should be able to prove it.”

He looked down and saw that Maglor’s cheeks were flushed a dark red from the excess of wine he’d consumed, and his eyes were very wide, standing out starkly. His hair was crowned around his head, piled up in a thick mass that curled at the ends where the style was beginning to loosen.

He echoed, eyes caught on Maglor’s lips, “Prove it?”

“What was it like, Finno?” Maglor’s shoulders shifted, and he turned, pressing his chest against Fingon’s. “Show me.”

Fingon’s hands wrapped around Maglor’s back. He’d tossed his cup aside to do it, the movement so instinctive he hadn’t even realized he was moving until it was finished, and he was holding Maglor in his arms, dragging him farther onto his lap.

His skin felt alive with fire.

He couldn’t think.

His thoughts flitted from him even as he tried to pursue them. He knew he should be thinking about all of the reasons this was wrong, but for the most part he could not, and what few entered his mind he found were shifted into fantasies.

He could not picture Maedhros looking heartbroken or wroth or disgusted at the sight of Maglor in his arms, though surely that must be the most likely reaction it would provoke. Instead, he found himself wondering if what he was feeling now was the same as what Maedhros had felt when it was Fingon spread out in his arms.

He stared into Maglor’s eyes with open want, and after that, he forgot himself.

“It was like this,” he said.

He cupped Maglor’s cheek in his hand and slid his thumb down to press just underneath his bottom lip.

Maglor let out a soft sound of surprise.

He could stop now, Fingon thought. He should stop now, and perhaps this was his last chance to stop, but he was desperate and too driven by his own desires to consider it for long. Maglor was staring at him as though he could not believe he was going to go through with it.

His lips were soft and full, and Fingon sealed their mouths together.

Maglor made another sound.

It came out muffled.

Fingon kissed Maglor like he remembered Maedhros kissing him. He surged forward with headstrong impatience tempered by great care, laving Maglor’s lips with his tongue, coaxing him to open his mouth even as he tightened his fingers against Maglor’s face, cradling his skin as though it was the most precious of treasures.

He shivered. Maglor hesitated, not quite kissing back, until Fingon’s tongue flicked the corner of his mouth, and he opened it.

Fingon came undone.

He continued to kiss as he had once been kissed, but Maglor’s own reactions to it threw him off, unbalancing him and causing him to fall into different patterns, more of his own making than of Maedhros’.

Maglor’s kissing was unrefined, sloppier than his brother’s had ever been, but there was a wicked eagerness to it that drove Fingon somewhat wild to experience it. His tongue was a natural talent, and when their mouths were open to each other Fingon felt raw pleasure like lightning run down his spine.

He pulled back panting.

“That was,” he tried to say. “Some of it.”

“You were not lying,” Maglor said, hands wrapped in Fingon’s braids.

He shook his head.

His blood was risen in his veins, and his skin felt more fiery than ever. He could not imagine walking home, now.

Maglor snickered. “You must show me the rest of what you did.”

“I must not!” Fingon denied.

“Would you rather I go back to guessing who it was with?” Maglor asked him, rolling his hips forward in a motion that sent Fingon’s head reeling.

He groaned.

“You won’t guess,” he said.

Maglor’s laughter turned dark and triumphant. “Oh, but I think I know.” He nearly crowed the words as he rolled his hips again, pausing to lean into Fingon’s ear. “How many of your cousins are you planning to seduce, Finno? Moryo may be a bit young for you yet, but I should like to know how to plan for the future, just in case.”

It did not matter that some of the speech was slurred together, or that Maglor broke off in the middle of the last sentence when his voice hitched, still grinding against Fingon’s lap.

It had its intended effect. 

“How did you find out?!” Fingon yelped.

He spoke before he meant to, realizing as he did so that he should have kept his mouth shut, but he was still drunk, and his tongue was loose in his mouth. He stared at Maglor with wide eyes, despairing.

Maglor bit his earlobe.

Fingon yelped again for entirely different reasons.

His hands tightened across Maglor’s back, and his cock jumped under his tunic. He felt a furious blush rise to his face and spill out over his cheeks.

He wished for some of his earlier careless courage to return, despite it being what got him into this position in the first place. He had felt much better then, holding the illusion of control over the situation, Maglor reacting to his actions, rather than the other way around.

Maglor’s teeth lingered against Fingon’s skin, and a low moan rose up in the back of his throat.

“You can’t be serious, Káno,” Fingon said.

“Why must I be serious to do this?” Maglor asked, releasing Fingon’s ear and pulling his braids so that his head tilted, and their eyes met. “But I knew simply because it must have been Nelyo who kissed you as you kissed me. For it to be anyone else would be unthinkable.”

“That sounded nearly romantic,” Fingon mumbled, and then cried, “Ai, but I let my thoughts run away from me. I meant not to take it so far.”

“I wish you would take it a little farther,” Maglor said, amused. “You wouldn’t leave me like this, would you?”

He attempted to protest, but Maglor’s hard cock ground against him, and Fingon could do nothing except rise up to meet it.

He shuddered.

His hands slipped lower and came to rest on Maglor’s ass.

Maglor’s cheeks went dark with sudden embarrassment. His deviousness fled, and Fingon watched as he worried his lower lip between his teeth, squirming a little as Fingon massaged his skin through his tunic.

“How much farther should I take it?” he asked.

Maglor yanked Fingon’s hair, stuttering without proper words.

He swirled his thumbs in large circles. His hips moved of their own accord, meeting Maglor’s in shallow thrusts, and he found himself struggling to keep his moans from turning indecent.

It might be a late hour, but this was still a public place.

He wasn’t sure what would happen to him if he was found in a compromising position under a tree with a fellow prince of Finwë’s line, but death seemed both the kindest and most likeliest of responses.

He understood much better now the grumbling and quibbling Maedhros had done when Fingon had first seduced him.

It was terrifying, the thought of being caught.

He did not pull back when Maglor turned his head, forcing him into another sloppy kiss, though.

He returned it, teasing it into something with more of a semblance of form. Maglor was beautiful enough that Fingon found it both amusing and curious that he hadn’t had more experience by now.

It was flattering, almost.

Maglor’s fine hair and finer voice, known throughout Tirion for its power in song despite his youth, would be enough to net him any number of suitors, but instead he was here, taking his first stumbling steps with Fingon on a drunken lark.

He laughed into Maglor’s mouth.

Maglor nipped the tip of his tongue.

Both of their cocks were straining against each other through their tunics. He kneaded Maglor’s ass in his hands, and he knew it would not take much more for them to come. He should have worried about what would happen after that, but his blood was pounding through his veins.

He did not care.

He suckled Maglor’s tongue, and one of his hands moved to their fronts. He grasped their arousal, pumping them both over layers of fabric.

Maglor threw his head back, breaking their kiss.

His hair tumbled from its crown.

Fingon sucked in an entranced breath.

“Finno,” Maglor cried, too loud, too hot for Fingon to bother shushing him. “I’m going to come.” His hands curled on Fingon’s collar, on his neck, pawing at him and making him pant with desire.

He groaned. “I know. I want you to. Please, Káno, come for me.”

He was on the edge himself, strung out and craving it. Maglor’s cock twitched against his palm, and he came, hard and fast.

Fingon followed him.

He kissed Maglor through the aftershocks, tearing at his lips.

Maglor’s fingernails bit into his skin.

He gasped.

It must have taken them some time to blink the stars from their eyes after that, because the mess in their tunics was cold when Fingon finally registered it, and he blushed in horror.

Maglor didn’t look much better.

He was climbing out of Fingon’s lap and reaching for the wine bottle in the same motion, wincing and making faces as he did so.

Fingon pressed his hand to his face in a futile attempt to cool his skin.

“I’m ruined,” he said.

Maglor passed him the bottle after he took a large swig himself. “Drink this.”

Fingon did, and passed it back.

The two of them continued like that until it was down to the dregs. Then Maglor sprawled out upon the grass, and Fingon slid down the trunk of the tree to join him there moments later.

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” Maglor asked. He was trying very hard not to sound like it mattered to him what the answer was, but Fingon found obvious that he did.

He made a noise of protest. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t bad.” 

He picked at the collar of his tunic, and continued after a moment, circling back to the horror that was still at the forefront of his mind, “But my clothes are ruined, and my mother shall ask me to fetch a switch if she ever finds out how I ruined them.”

Maglor stared up at the swaying branches above them. “Well,” he suggested. “Perhaps you should fetch one preemptively.”

Fingon couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up out of his throat at that. It was tinged with hysteria and drunkenness, but it felt good in his chest, ringing out over the grass in great peals until Maglor’s joined it.

It trailed off into gasps and hums of pleasure, and then silence settled in.

Fingon wasn’t sure whether he should break it.

“I don’t supposed we’ll do this again,” Maglor said, after a while.

“It wasn’t bad,” Fingon told him, repeating what he had said earlier. He sat up a little. “I wouldn’t say no to more of that wine you stole, some other time.”

“But this?” Maglor gestured between them.

Fingon opened his mouth to speak.

Maglor shushed him. “No, no.” He shook his head. More of his dark hair spilled out around his shoulders. He almost sounded as though he would laugh again as he said, decisive, “Keep this for Nelyo, Finno. I’ll find something else to occupy myself with.”

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Fingon said, almost nervous. “You could have anyone.”

Maglor did laugh, then.

Fingon frowned, and he did not bother to pursue the topic more after that. He thought of Maedhros instead, and thought that, untainted by lust, he would absolutely be horrified when Fingon told him about this.

It was tempting to think about not telling him at all.

He sighed and tugged his braids back into place as best he could with his fingers still stumbling from drink. He turned his thoughts from Maedhros to the more pressing matter of how he was going to get his legs under him in a short enough time to make it home before the Mingling.

He did not worry about what Maglor would do.


End file.
